


Hello, Blackbird, Hello, Starling

by adeepeningdig



Series: Wolves in the Timber [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cop Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Needs a Hug, Dog Fighting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 12:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13682007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adeepeningdig/pseuds/adeepeningdig
Summary: In your dream you are in the car driving down the 5. The smell of your dad’s jacket is over everything, his hand resting on your mom’s on the console between them. Cora’s pitching a fit behind you, Laura egging her on. Jaimie’s between them, quiet, reading a book maybe, but you feel the weight of his presence, his solemn importance. Sometimes you think he was like a ghost, even when he breathed. You were not close to your older brother when he lived. Now you miss him with a fierceness that you wish could raise the dead.Your hands are covered in blood, but that is an old thing- it is so in all your dreams.The car glides around the curve. Beacon Hills is spread out before you in the darkness, a pattern of lights. You imagine you know each one. Main Street, Washington and Eighth. The high school, the library, Franklin Park. The elm, the alder, the pine. You must make some noise, because your mother turns in her seat, one hand still on the wheel. “Derek?” she says.Then you wake.





	Hello, Blackbird, Hello, Starling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yodasyoyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/gifts).



> This is part II of my very first Sterek fic, Wolves in the Timber. It should stand on its own, but things would probably be clearer if you read Wolves in the Timber first. Many thanks to Yodas Yo-Yo, my number one cheerleader and beta-reader.

Hello, blackbird. Hello, starling  
Winter’s over. Be my Darling.  
It’s been a long time coming  
But now, the snow is gone  
-Josh Ritter “Snow is Gone”

In your dream you are in the car driving down the 5. The smell of your dad’s jacket is over everything, his hand resting on your mom’s on the console between them. Cora’s pitching a fit behind you, Laura egging her on. Jaimie’s between them, quiet, reading a book maybe, but you feel the weight of his presence, his solemn importance. Sometimes you think he was like a ghost, even when he breathed. You were not close to your older brother when he lived. Now you miss him with a fierceness that you wish could raise the dead. 

Your hands are covered in blood, but that is an old thing- it is so in all your dreams. 

The car glides around the curve. Beacon Hills is spread out before you in the darkness, a pattern of lights. You imagine you know each one. Main Street, Washington and Eighth. The high school, the library, Franklin Park. The elm, the alder, the pine. You must make some noise, because your mother turns in her seat, one hand still on the wheel. “Derek?” she says. 

Then you wake. 

***  
It is in a suburb of Cleveland, of all places, that she catches you. The houses there are stately, spaced far apart from one another, hills and treelines separating neighbor from neighbor. You see double-car driveways, minivans, children’s bikes unceremoniously laying on their sides on front lawns, and you can’t help but look. 

Braeden is quiet all through that day, and into the next week. You don’t ask her what’s bothering her, because that’s part of your unspoken pact. Her baggage is hers alone, and yours is yours. Finally, ten days later, she says as you are preparing for bed, “it’s not going to happen, you know.”

You look at her standing in the Bon Jovi t-shirt she wears to sleep, the pale scar down her neck highlighted in the yellow motel room light. She has been good to you, this woman. Still you say, “What’s not going to happen?”

“I’m not going to ever settle down- those houses you were ogling- that’s never going to be us. I’m not built that way.”

“I know,” you tell her, because you do. You weren’t looking for the future, anyway, you were looking for the past- for the pale yellow house with the wrap-around porch you helped your father build; for the roses and wolfsbane crowding the flower bed out front- but it would all sound the same to Braeden, so you don’t try to explain yourself. 

“Maybe we should-” she looks away.

“Hey,” you say, stepping into her space and knuckling her chin up so you can see her face, “let’s just finish this job, ok?” You’ve been hunting this stupid wendigo for weeks now. You want to be done with it. “We don’t have to talk about this now.”

“Ok,” she says, and she kisses you, maneuvering you towards the bed. You go willingly, easily, with joy. Even now, with this between you, your lovemaking is filled with laughter and your bodies know how to say the things both of you never could. 

After, when you’ve parted ways, you call Cora. You’re a bit adrift. Most of what you own is in a backpack on your back. You have no plans, and no obligations. You miss your sister. 

“Cor?” you say when she picks up. Her voice is distorted and choppy. Service isn’t great outside of Rio. It’s actually lucky you caught her. 

“What’s up, Der?” she answers.

“Do you want to- let’s go somewhere.”

“Ok,” she replies, though it’s more of a question than a statement. “Are you ok? Where’s Braeden?”

You huff a sigh. “I’m fine. Braeden and I broke up. We’re not together anymore- I mean not working together anymore, or together romantically.”

“Braeden broke up with you?”

“It was mutual. But that’s not the point. The point is-”

“You want to go somewhere.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking of going to Europe, get away for a little bit. It would be nice- I’d like to spend some time with you. It’s been so long.”

“Huh.” Cora says. “So Braeden breaks up with you and now you’re a family man?”

“Cora,” you say. “I’m not sure that’s fair.”

“I’m just saying, you could have come down here at any point.”

Something twists in your stomach. She’s right, of course. You could have. But the thought of seeing Cora happy in some other pack, with some other family- You close your eyes. “Do you want to come with me, or not?” you ask her. 

There is silence. Then your sister says, “yes.”

You don’t mind the rain as a general rule, but on your third day in London in starts to sleet and it is truly is miserable. You end up at the Tate despite Cora’s protests. You never had much use for art as a kid. You were a jock, more interested in basketball and lacrosse than anything else. There wasn’t much art to be seen in Beacon Hills anyways. But after, in New York, you would often inexplicably find yourself in the Met on your days off. The city was so loud and frenetic and you were still so full of rage. The museum was quiet. 

You learned to avoid the crowds of schoolchildren by slipping into the small rooms with the more obscure works. You would sit there, for hours sometimes, just gazing at some Dutch nobleman painted by an artist you had never heard of, listening to the building breathe, feeling your own heartbeat, your own anger until it coalesced into something more akin to guilt and then finally into grief. You want to show this to Cora, give her this, if you can. You can sense the rage in her thrumming still. Here is a quiet place, you want to tell her. Take it with you. 

The Tate is different than the Met, more compressed and smaller. There are fewer places to hide, and you are not sure you like it, so the Sargent takes you by surprise. Suddenly, you are in the Preserve during the long dusk of summer, when the light seemed to last forever. Cora and Maggie, Peter’s daughter, are lighting paper lanterns on the eve of the full moon, bright spheres of soft light ushering in the darkness when the true moon would call to you. Your mother is laughing, calling to Laura to bring the camera. Your father is on the porch, looking over Jaimie’s shoulder at the children running havoc over the lawn. It is so near to you, the warm air, the drone of night insects and the birds calling as they settle for the night. The light in the painting is exactly the same.

Cora gently nudges you in the side with her elbow. 

“The Preserve, right?” 

You didn’t think she would remember. She was so young. 

“Yeah,” you say

She takes your hand and squeezes. 

Later that night she pounces on you as you are getting ready for bed in your hotel room. You wrestle for a bit, messing the awful bedspread and spilling pillows all over the floor until she bites you, and you laugh, pulling at her hair. “Corny,” you call her by the old childhood nickname she hated, “stop it.” Miraculously, she listens, and you settle finally, breathless mostly for show, against the headboard and pull her in against your chest. 

“I’m sorry,” she says finally. 

“For what?” she owes you nothing. If anything, you owe her everything. You and Laura abandoned her for years, never stopping to verify whether she was alive or not. The two of you had taken your grief and fear and ran and Cora was the one who paid the price.

“For being such a bitch to you. I was really happy to see you. I was. But I was also, I was just so-”

“Angry,” you supply,

“Yes. I was angry and everything was so different. Nothing was like I expected or remembered. But I’m sorry I took it out on you.”

“It’s ok,” you say, “If I recall, I wasn’t that nice to you either.”

“Yeah,” she says, “I wouldn’t say you were the best Alpha in the world.”

You want to be wounded, but you know that it is the truth. You were not a good Alpha. You thought you were giving those kids a gift, you thought you were giving them power, all you gave them was death. Isaac’s number is programed into your phone. You came here, in part, to apologize to him, but you do not know how to face him. Like a ritual, your finger hovers over the call button every evening, but you never muster the courage to make the call. You fail even in that. 

“You would have been a good Alpha, eventually, though,” Cora slips her hand through yours and you shake your head.

“No. No, I wouldn’t have. I was bad at it. I don’t have the instincts for it, I kept on making the wrong decisions. Laura would have known what to do. She was a very good Alpha.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she was. She was a good sister, too. I miss her.”

“I barely remember her.” Cora confesses. “And anyway, I think you sell yourself short. Laura only had you to deal with, and you were her brother. You had a bunch of obnoxious teenagers, a Darach and an Alpha pack. Even Mom would have had a hard time with that.” 

“Maybe,” you allow, but you think it is likely that your mother dealt with worse and more, only you hadn’t known, children that you were. Laura knew, maybe. She and your mother were like oil and water, always at each other’s throats, they were so similar to one another, but there was never any question about the fact that Laura would be Alpha when your mother was gone. 

The are both gone now, killed by members of their own family, unwittingly and wittingly. There is no Hale Alpha in Beacon Hills or any other place. 

“Anyway,” Cora continues, “I don’t think I ever really thanked you. So, thank you.”

“Cor,” you breathe, and you hold on tight. “I wouldn’t ever- it wasn’t even a choice, you’re my family, you’re my sister. You know I would do anything for you. Anything.”

“I know.” 

You lift up the covers and slide underneath,still in your clothes. Cora follows, throwing her arm around you and nosing at the dip in your collarbone. You haven’t slept curled up into one another like this since you were children.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Braeden,” Cora says, her voice muffled by your skin, “I liked her. But I’m glad at least she dragged you out of that fucking town. I’d be happy never to see it again. I don’t miss it.”

But you do. No, you don’t miss the terror and the violence and the betrayal and the scent of ash always on the wind. You do not miss what the Nemeton draws there. You are glad to have had these years, these almost quiet years, to remember what it is to live unafraid, to settle into your bones and see what shape they take. But in Beacon Hills there was a man who sometimes called you son, and a boy who almost called you brother. You do not know what you were to them, but at least you know that there you are not an abomination. 

You do not miss the burnt out shell of your family home and the loft where you almost died, where Boyd died, but you miss belonging somewhere. You can navigate the streets of Beacon Hills in your sleep. It’s in your bones, in your blood. Your family is buried there, and you will be, too.

“I do,” you tell Cora. “I miss it.” 

She pushes herself up on her elbows and looks at you. 

“Ok, she says finally. “So, go back.”

You do not go back. You land in JFK and see Cora off to her flight to Rio, holding her tight until she pulls away, and then you lease a car. All along the thin strip of the Rockaways you tell yourself that you will turn west. Instead you turn south, moving down the coast, always with the water on your left. You have plenty of money, and you’re not in a rush. You have nowhere to be.You are truly and utterly alone. 

You don’t think you can stand to work in a kitchen again, but you spend the winter working the front of a diner in a little town in southern New Jersey. It’s nice to fall back into a rhythm of work. It’s been so long since what you did with your days meant so little and so much all at the same time. You like the people, and the quiet and the privacy, but come spring, you’re getting antsy, so you give your notice and head out. 

You keep the open the window open as you drive to catch the scent of the fledgling season. It smells like pine and distant salt air. You turn west. 

By the time you hit Pittsburgh not even a day later, you’ve convinced yourself that this was a mistake. You’re not ready to go back, and anyway, just because Cora said you should go back it doesn’t mean you should. That place is poison and trauma. Why would you even consider it? You haven’t been in touch with Scott in ages. Who knows if he’s still there? You hope he’s not there. You hope he’s gotten out. You hope they’ve all gotten out of that hell hole. That town’s no place for anyone- blood and terror and grief-why would you go back? 

Turning west doesn’t mean you’re going back. It just means you’re turning west. There is endless west. You’re thousands and thousands of miles away from Beacon Hills. You can stop if you want to.

You pick up a job in construction, of all things. The physical labor and easy camaraderie remind you of the kitchen. Plus, nobody asks questions. If you can do your job, you’re golden, and you can do the job.

Davey’s just a guy on the job until he isn’t. He invites you for a beer, and you have no reason to say no, so you say yes. He’s friendly in the way most straight men are- without malice, but also without depth. It’s fine, having a beer with him, catching a movie after work. You’re both souls slightly adrift- without family or connections. You’re not lonely- you like your own solitude too much to be lonely- but you don’t mind the company.

“You hike?” he asks one day. The weather has been awful for the best part of the week, but the forecast is calling for sun over the weekend. It would be good to get away and stretch your bones, even if you can’t do it as a wolf. 

“Sure,” you say.

And so you go. You hike up the trail, Davey, amazingly keeping pace. 

“It’s beautiful,” you say at the top of the rise. The mountains are spread out around you and they envelope your field of vision. You are in a basin of nature and you feel safe. 

“Sure is,” Davey comes up behind you, his breath a little strained, you note with satisfaction. He puts a hand on your shoulder. You turn back to smile at him. And then-

You feel something sharp prick the back of your neck. Against your will your bones crack and change, your canines lengthen. “Davey-” you manage to say. He stands above you, grinning. You never learn. 

Alpha, beta, omega, you are scrambling to hold onto your mother’s voice, the scent of the Preserve, Laura’s hand on your shoulder, anything, anything to make your body yours again, but you drop to all fours and your ears are flooded with all the minute sounds of the living world, the scent of it overwhelming. This was your mother’s gift to you and it is being taken. Scott, you think. Stiles. You wait to hear Lydia scream.

Nothing. 

***  
Pine wood. Plaster. Mold under a sink. Food, but not fresh. A human. Humans, fainter, but there. A breeze brings in trash and cold damp. Gasoline. The far-off scent of something green. You whine and sleep again. 

You are trapped in a circle, in a space you don’t know. There is a man asleep in another room. You wait.

The man is awake. His heart rate skyrockets and he is awake. He is not the man, the other man, the thick scent man who left and didn’t come back, but you are trapped and he is a man. You paw at the ash. The man will come and there will be pain and blood in your mouth. You are turning in frantic circles and he is there, smelling of panic and confusion, his heartbeat like an earthquake. He says words you don’t understand and he is moving, moving toward you, even as you snarl. His foot is at the barrier. He scuffs at it and it breaks. 

You run.

A corner. Under. He cannot reach you here. 

Then the Alpha is there. He is the wrong Alpha, not your Alpha, but an Alpha nonetheless. He looks you in the eyes and calls you something, a name, maybe, but you don’t know it. The man is still there, too, standing at the Alpha’s shoulder. He smells tired and sad, very sad, but he does not smell angry. A woman stands in the doorway, death around her like a cloak. She does not come near. 

The humans are using human words. Sleep takes you against your will.

Now it is quiet. The human is gone. There is food, water in the middle of the room. The food might be the bad food, but you are so very hungry, so you eat and you drink. Only the man lives here. His scent is on everything, all over. It is strongest in the place he sleeps, but also in the other rooms, the room with the food and the room with the windows. The Alpha comes here sometimes. The woman, too. There are other human scents, ones that you cannot identify. They come from above and below. This makes you nervous. The man approaches. You go back to your corner. 

Sometimes the man-Stiles- is there and sometimes he is gone. Sometimes he comes back reeking of exhaustion and frustration. Sometimes he is in pain. It makes you shudder. Sometimes he lays down on the couch and does not sleep, but his heartbeat evens out and settles, so you settle. You like those times. 

He leaves you alone, for the most part. He puts out food and water and pulls you outside on a leash so you can piss on the curb. He talks to you then, standing on the street corner, his hands in his pockets. You once knew the words he is saying, you think. You once knew many more words than you do now. His tone is even and steady. You do not know if they are angry words or praising words, and you do not understand him. 

Of all the humans that pass through the man- Stiles’s- apartment, you like the older man best. His heartbeat beats slightly out of rhythm, but it is strong and even steady. He comes when Stiles is gone for hours and hours. You don’t like those times. It makes you anxious. What if no one comes ever again? What if you are trapped here in this apartment? You will starve here, waiting. But then the older man comes, and everything is ok.

“Son,” the Sheriff says, “shit, sure does follow you around. I’m not really sure how you get yourself into these messes, but we’re going to get you out of it. I promise.”

You believe him and lick at his face to tell him so. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles’s father says, getting the leash from the hook by the door. “Come on, now. I’m sure you’ve got to pee and mark your territory, so let’s do that.”

Spring comes in stages and all at once. The air is soft and Stiles is full of nervous energy. You smell it on him as he loads you into his car on his day off. You haven’t left the neighborhood with him before. Your heart beats a twin with his as the engine turns. 

The vehicle stops in a clearing. Stiles gets out and opens the door for you. “Come on,” he says, and he reaches for you. There is so much scent here. More than in his apartment or around the blocks you walk again and again. Run, the part of you that is wolf says. Stretch your legs, take your birthright and run with your man. This place is so green- pine and birch and grass. Little rabbits in their warrens, just a few days old. The birds coming back from their winter. Here in the vehicle it smells only of Stiles. Just him. You want to run with him, but the scent on the breeze is ash and grief and if you go, if you plunge into those trees (oh, this is yours. this is yours. this has always been yours), you know that you will start to howl and you will not be able to stop.

Stiles returns smelling of guilt and misery and you don’t know why, so you lean your body against his and give him your shoulder to take some of the weight. 

***  
It is like birth, or what you imagine birth to be, coming into to your human self. It happens suddenly, no warning, no conscious thought. Your flesh shudders, your bones crack. Your head hits something hard and solid, the pain sharp and grounding. Here are your- hands? And feet? Thumbs. You have thumbs. 

Stiles is in the room. 

This isn’t. You shouldn’t. It doesn’t smell right. This isn’t right. Cora is not. This is not. Cora is not thumping down the stairs, her favorite sweatshirt is in the wash, she’s late for school. Your dad is yelling at her to get going; yelling at you to get going. Drive your sister, Derek. This is not home. Where is your mother, your Alpha? You need to go home. 

Stiles. 

“Do you know who I am?” he asks and he opens his arms. 

Stiles. You let yourself fall.

This is what you know: you were stuck in your wolf form. 

This is what you know: you fought dogs and sometimes you killed them. 

This is what you know: Davey yanking at the choke collar around your neck, throwing you bodily into the ring, punctuating his frustration with a kick. 

This is what you know: somehow you made it to Beacon Hills. Somehow he trapped you in a ring of ash, as he did every night- he never needed to cage you- and didn’t come back. 

This is what you know: Stiles found you, because that is what Stiles does.

You didn’t think of Stiles much when you were gone, at least not consciously, but you did dream of him: his arms holding you up, the smell of chlorine, his heavy panting breaths, or the scent of his panic and anxiety. You are searching and searching, but you do not find him. You were always unsettled after those dreams, needing to move, untangle yourself from Braeden and run. Braeden was a light sleeper by necessity, but she never said anything- if you could say one thing about Braeden- and there are many things you could say about her- it was that she knew when not to ask questions.

Stiles found you because that is what Stiles does. 

“Derek,” Cora hisses. She is the first phone call you make-the first voice you want to hear, other than Stiles’s. “You can’t do this anymore. You can’t just disappear for a year.”

“I’m sorry,” you say ineffectually. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize-”

“What? You think you can just drop off the face of the earth and I wouldn’t worry? That isn’t how this works, Derek. You can’t just take me on vacation once every decade and consider your brotherly duties done.”

“I know, I know.”

“You were in trouble. You were in trouble and I had no idea.”

“I know!” you interrupt her. “Ok, Cora, I know. I screwed up. I screwed up badly, but it wasn’t as if I had a way to get in touch with you. I was stuck.”

She makes a noise that is almost a sob. “Well, if you had been in touch after London, I would have at least known where to start looking.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I really, really am.”

“Don’t make me lose you, asshole.”

“I won’t,” you say. “If it’s in my power, I won’t. And I’m going to stay in touch, I promise, Cora. I do.” 

“Ok,” she says. “I’m still mad at you though.”

“I deserve it.” 

“No you don’t. I could have called you as easily as you could have called me.”

“That is also true.” You close your eyes and Cora takes a breath. “How’s Beacon Hills?” she asks after a beat. 

“I don’t really know. I’m just getting back to myself.”

“Scott still the Alpha?” 

“Yes.”

“Stiles still annoying as hell?”

You smile. “Yes.”

“He didn’t come for me because he was dead.” You are staring at Davey’s face, white in it’s lividity. He seems so innocuous. He doesn’t smell like anything but death, cold and chemicals now, and for a moment you remember him as he was in Pittsburgh-just the way he would lift his beer can to his mouth. The wolf in you knows better though. The wolf in you is whining, tail between your legs, backing away. The wolf in you wants to please him before he hurts you.

“I guess so,” Stiles says, and lays a hand on your shoulder. “Come on,” he says, “I don’t think we need to be here anymore.” 

Scott brings you back into the fold as if you never left. He doesn’t introduce you to his new pack members, he just assumes that Stiles told you who they are. It makes for a few awkward interactions. Eventually you get the hang of it though. You already know Lydia and Liam. The pack hasn’t grown that much. 

“I was thinking,” Scott says, “it might be a good idea for you to go through the vault while you’re here.” He has yet to ask how long you’re staying, which is a good thing, because you don’t know the answer. “Malia moved away like five years ago after high school, and we haven’t had a Hale here since then.”

On the face of it, it’s not a terrible idea. You’re antsy already, looking for something to do when Stiles isn’t around other than to cook, and you are the only Hale in Beacon Hills, save Peter, who doesn’t count. 

Any yet. 

You haven’t been back to the site of your old home since they built those idiotic condominiums. You haven’t been to the cemetery, the loft, the train depot, the bank, now an indoor market, where Erica died. You haven’t been anywhere that might remind you of the things you’ve lost. You are a coward, as you’ve always been.

Scott says, “I have a feeling Lydia would give you a hand. She’s dying to know what’s in there.” 

You sigh. It isn’t an order from your Alpha-Scott isn’t your Alpha and it wasn’t an order- but the tone of his voice makes you want to obey. Well, why else are you here if it isn’t to start digging up your past?

Lydia meets you at the entrance to the vault the next Sunday, practically vibrating out of her surprisingly practical shoes. 

“Derek,” she says, rising up on her toes to kiss your cheek, “it’s good to see you.”

You give her a brief hug. “Likewise. Thank you for all your help. Stiles told me you really put a lot of effort into getting me back to myself. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem. I didn’t really do anything. You came back to yourself all by yourself.”

“If you say so,” you smile.

“Of course I say so,” she sniffs, and for a second she is the old Lydia, the prim and composed girl she was before Peter got his claws into her. You did not know her then, but you have heard Stiles talk about her. “Well,” she gestures at the vault entrance, “are we going to do this or not?”

You are both quiet as you enter the vault. The scent hits you and you have to close your eyes. You have not smelled your mother in so many years, but she is here. Her scent is here. All of their scents are here. 

Lydia touches your arm. 

You take another step into the arms of your dead family. 

It is Jaimie’s science project of all things that breaks you. You are indifferent to your father’s handwriting, Cora’s jewelry box, your mother’s vial of medicinal herbs. Even Laura’s baby teeth in the palm of your hand don’t get to you. But then you open a box to find the stupid planet diorama your brother made in 5th grade staring up at you. You helped him build it, your small little claws cutting through cardboard like a knife. He pricked himself with a safety pin and bled and bled. You cried, it scared you so. You are crying now. His scent hits you and you are crying. 

“What’s that?” Lydia asks, coming to peer around your shoulder. 

“Nothing,” you wipe at your eyes. “Just a science project my brother made a million years ago- it’s nothing to do with anything- I mean, it’s not helpful to you.”

“Ok,” she frowns. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Yeah, I did. He died-he died with everyone else.”

She squeezes your arm and waits for you to elaborate, but you don’t want to elaborate, not to her. Strangely, inexplicably, you want Stiles. You want to tell him about Jaimie- how he was tall and thin and cerebral, how you are just beginning to realize how difficult it must have been for him to grow up as the only human in a family of werewolves. You swallow and look away. Lydia takes the hint and goes back to cataloging the different types of wolfsbane- neatly jarred and labeled-stored on the shelves. 

You take the diorama with you when you leave and on impulse, place it one of the bookshelves lining Stiles’s living room. It doesn’t take him long to find it.

“It was my brother’s- Jaimie’s-” you tell him. 

He runs a hand over the top of the box. “How old was he when he made this?”

“About 11,” you say, coming to stand next to him, “He was a couple years older than me. I idolized him.”

“Huh,” Stiles says, and he leans into you, his broad shoulders touching yours. “That’s some seriously impressive artwork. He had some mad skills.” 

“Yes,” you say. “He did.”

“I’m glad you brought it home. Makes the place look a little less like a dump.”

You smile and keep yourself from squeezing his hand.

***  
You should have known by now that it is Stiles who would find the dogs. He as is stubborn as ever. You know he is still working the case, you know that it frustrates him. He comes home late more often than not, reeking of impatience and irritation. You keep to your room then, because you don’t want to hear about it, though you cannot settle to sleep until you can hear the click of the microwave door opening and you know that Stiles has eaten. 

You keep on catching ghost scents of the dogs you fought and the dogs you killed throughout the town. You thought it was your guilt, so you didn’t say anything to Stiles. But it wasn’t just your guilt, it was real. Your mother is rolling in her grave. Everything she taught you has been corrupted. You cannot even distinguish a true scent from fake. You should have known. You should have known

You step out of Scott’s car, and look up, and there’s Stiles, always Stiles, rushing towards you. You fall- not into his arms- but into the familiar stench of blood and piss and pain and death. The pavement is wet with rain. Your ears are ringing. Your claws have lengthened, but you do not shift. 

The young black cur you fought is dead, so is the patched brown one. You smell their deaths. The little girl is starving. The breeding mother has lost her litter. 

Now, the Alpha is saying something. 

His hand is in your hair, pulling your head back. Wet concrete under your feet. (Hard wood under your feet). Gerard’s sickly skin in your mouth. Fur and muscle and blood in your mouth. Your body is a weapon. You are made a weapon. It is not what you meant to become. This is not what your mother raised you to be. She raised you to be yourself, but you are made a weapon. 

Scott’s hands are on your hands, but you pull back from his touch. This is not right. He is not the right Alpha. You want your mother.

You cannot be here. Where are you? You were outside the factory with the dogs. You were biting Gerard. You are- You are in Stiles’s living room. How are you here? You need to be safe. Safe is not here.

In your room, you sink to the floor and scrabble at the hardwood, wanting to shift. If you shift, if you shift, there will be blood in your mouth, dripping from your teeth. The stench will be in your nose, on your tongue. There is whining, animal whining all around, the rattle of a last breath. It is only yourself, it is only your throat closing around a sob. It is only yourself.

You know this space. You lie down on your bed and you know this space. You know the brick on your chest, the tears always threatening under your eyelids. Your brain fires continuously, like a gun backfiring on a loop. You can’t be here. You don’t want be like this again. Not without your sister- not without her snarling, literally pulling you out of the tangle of your dirty sheets. You have class this morning, Derek, get the fuck out of bed, Derek. Not without the scent of her, the last live piece of yourself remaining.

Not without, Laura, who you killed, who you caused to be killed. Oh God, Laura.

Why is it like this now, Laura? This isn’t the worst. They were just dogs, not people. You’ve killed too many people. Boyd wasn’t like this. Erica either. You killed them just the same. Get up, Derek. You are a person. Get up. Get up and wash your face. Why are you here, Laura? This is not about Laura, this is- the dogs. Get up and run. Why are you here? What were you thinking, coming back here? What did you think would happen here, Derek? Run wolf, run. 

You will run. As soon as the man sleeps, you will run. But the man-Stiles- does not sleep. His heartbeat is in your ears- it holds you. It is a vise around your chest and it will not let you go. He will not let you drown, and you hate him. 

All through the night you hear it- fast, fast and slow, then fast again. Almost, almost you crawl into his bed, press yourself against his broad back, his capable shoulders. Almost you say, hold me. All through the night, your eyes wide open: hold me. Hold me. Hold me. Hold me.

 

In New York, so many years ago, you worked as a line-cook in a middling restaurant in Dumbo. It was good work: hard, punishing, and hot. It left you with nothing but a body- no time to think, or feel. You didn’t even have a name there- everyone called you California, as if you were just the place you left behind. 

You barely noticed Deo at first, he was on the saute line, and you were on the grill. There was a sea of raucous and vulgar men between you, and he was so quiet. But then as time wore on, you began to notice him- the cut of his cheekbones, his blue-black hair falling into his face, the span of his strong shoulders, his tattooed forearms. You tried not to notice, but his eyes would meet yours over family dinner and he would grin and dip his head, and you realized that his eyes were the darkest eyes you had ever seen. 

It was Deo who kissed you first, in the alleyway next to the dumpsters of all places. It stank to high heaven and he pressed his lips to yours and you surprised yourself by not backing away. 

“Derek,” he said, and he touched your cheek. 

After that, work was another thing altogether- Deo’s hand on your hip as he steadied himself, rushing down the pass. After closing, late into the night, or early morning, his legs tangled with yours on the shitty mattress in his shitty apartment. He was only a little older than you, but he was more experienced, so you followed his lead, and you didn’t think of Kate. 

Then, one day, no not one day, it was September, 14th, you came home to find Laura throwing her stuff into a bag. 

“Laur?” you asked.

“Der,” she breathed and pulled you into a hug. “Listen, bro,” she said. “I’ve got to go. Something’s not right in Beacon Hills. I can feel it. I’ve got to go and check it out.”

“Ok,” you answered because what else could you say? “Be careful.”

She kissed your cheek, “It’s probably nothing, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. Anyway, I should go check on Peter. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” you said, looking at your shoes. You should probably go visit him at some point as well. “Call when you get in.”

“I will,” she said, and gave you one more hug.

It was the last time you saw her alive.

Laura did call when she got in, but she didn’t call the next day, or the day after. You felt the lack of her in your bones, through your veins. You hadn’t been apart for this long since you left California. 

At work you were slow and distracted. The kitchen was not a dance, it was an obstacle course. You tripped on the edge of the rubber floor matting, and caught yourself, palm down on the hot cast iron range. The smell of burning flesh filled your nose. The smell-

“Derek! Derek!” Deo screamed your name, bodily pulling you away and pushing your hand under a running faucet. Your palm steamed when it hit the water. 

“Jesus,” he panted. “Jesus Christ. Derek, what the fuck was that?”

“I don’t-I don’t know,” you whispered, and then louder you said, “I think I tripped.”

“Carino,” he said, pulling you into his embrace. “I’ve never seen you trip before.”

There was silence in the kitchen. Everyone was looking at you, until Chef snapped, “Derek, get out of here. Go see Abby. You’re useless like that. Everyone else, quit gawking and cook, before I kick your fucking asses.”

You went to see Abby. She hissed even though the burns on your hand didn’t look nearly as bad as they had two minutes previously. “Go home,” she said, handing you a bottle of aloe. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You waited for Deo’s break though and then you pulled him into that same alleyway where he first kissed you, still smelling of garbage. 

“My sister went back to California, and I haven’t heard from her in two days,” you told  
him. 

He took your unbandaged hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You slid your hand out if his grip. “It didn’t seem relevant, I guess. But I think I need to go. I think I need to go home and see what happened to my sister.”

“Ok,” Deo said, and he looked away.

“I’ll be back soon,” you told him.

“Sure,” he said. “Take care of yourself, California.” He touched your cheek, but he hadn’t called you California in weeks and weeks. 

You swallowed harshly. “I’ll try.”

You went home, threw your things into a bag, got into Laura’s Camaro and started to drive.  
You never saw Deo again.

So the want is something you recognize in yourself. Now, you are beginning to notice- you notice Stiles’s wide shoulders, his pale skin, the curve of his ass in his jeans. His eyes are the most beautiful eyes you have ever seen. 

He is nothing like Deo, if anything, he is more like Braeden. The years have mellowed him some, but he is still more sharp than soft, still all edges. He would never call you carino. But you would call him carino if he would let you. You would call him darling, dear heart, anything that would get him to train his eyes upon yours, so that he could see you. You would touch his cheek gently, stroke your hands down the muscles in his back.

Sometimes, you smell his want, which is an echo of your want, but it is a passing thing, so you do nothing. You didn’t know Stiles was attracted to men, but maybe it is a thing he doesn’t know himself. It’s better to leave it alone. It’s better not to get too close. It’s better this way. 

You can’t leave him though. It would be the normal thing to do- you’ve crashed on his couch for long enough, it would be the time to get your own place. You can’t make yourself do it. And then he gets you a bed and a space that is yours and you know that where he is is home. 

You know he wants to ask you. Every time he looks at you you hear his question- are you staying? Stay. 

You run. When Scott doesn’t need you, when Stiles is on late shift, when you can’t sleep, you run. You don’t shift, but you lope through the streets of Beacon Hills at an animal pace. You pass your decrepit loft, the train depot, the bank. You pass the arts center where Jaimie learned to paint, the park where you played pick-up basketball every Thursday, Cora’s favorite ice cream shop, the tattoo parlor where Laura got her first illicit piercing, your father’s office, the border lines marked by your mother in blood and wolfsbane. You do not stop. You let these places pass through you and you do not think. You hit the Preserve and you go up into the hills, onto the paths you didn’t run with Stiles- the places were his scent is still. 

Are you staying? Stay.

You stop at the overlook and see your city.

You were always going to stay. You were always coming back. It was never a choice.

***  
He wakes in the middle of the night, his heartbeat a thunderstorm and you are down the hall and in his room before you can think, fangs and claws bared. His scent is alive with desperation and fear.

No. You were wrong. He is not awake. He is dreaming, his body tense and arching under the covers. 

You shake him and call his name because you can’t kiss him. Stiles rockets up in his bed, smashing his face into your nose. The pain is bright for a moment and then gone. 

“Dad,” he mutters, grasping at your arms. “Daddy.”

Then his eyes open. 

He flushes. “Derek,” he says.

“You were dreaming,” you tell him.

“I was having a nightmare,” he corrects you.

“Yes, I get them too.” Your sleep has not been an easy thing for near 15 years now. 

His heartbeat is still wild, so you get him some tea and settle in the chair in the corner of his room. You can’t get your own heartbeat to settle. The scent of him- you could never forget Nogitsune, but you had forgotten the scent of his panic, and how, even back then, it sent you into a panic. 

The apartment is safe. Stiles is safe. You are safe, but you will not sleep again tonight, you know. You keep watch until Stiles is asleep again, until the sun is well up, dispersing the night and its terrors like so much fog. 

Still, when Scott asks you to be his second you don’t immediately say yes. You call Cora. 

“Well,” you ask her, “what do you think?”

“I think you should do it.”

“Really?” You thought Cora would object, loudly and vehemently- that you are handing over your family’s history and legacy willingly. You thought this would be just another betrayal to her.

“Yes,” she answers. “You want to stay, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” you say. 

“So do it. Make it official. Stay. I’m not sure why you think it’s so complicated.”

“I could stay without joining Scott’s pack. It isn’t as if I haven’t been on my own before.”

“Derek, I’m sorry to say, but the last time you were on your own things didn’t exactly end up so well for you.”

You sigh.

“Look,” Cora continues, “that’s not-I’m not saying you can’t handle yourself. I’m just saying, things are better with a pack, and you obviously like Scott and have a relationship with him, and it’s good for you to be with Stiles, so do it.”

“Wait-” you say- “it’s good for me to be with Stiles? What do you mean by that?”

“I mean you’re happy. You sound happy when you talk about him.”

“We’re not together. We’ve never been together.”

You can hear Cora roll her eyes over the phone. “Fine. You’re not with Stiles. I get it. But maybe you should be.”

“Cor-” 

“I’m not going to bug you about this- I’m just saying-”

“Let’s get back on subject,” you interrupt, “we got sidetracked.”

“I’m not sure we did,” Cora says, “but yes, let’s go back to Scott’s offer.”

“I think,” you say, “I think I’m just worried about what Mom would think.”

“I think Mom would say that it would be good to have a non-crazy Hale in Beacon Hills.”

“I just feel like I’m betraying our pack again.”

“Der,” Cora says softly. “You never betrayed our pack." 

“You know that’s not true.”

“No. It is true. You didn’t. Kate Argent killed our family, not you, and it was Peter who betrayed us, not you. And if anyone betrayed Beacon Hills, it’s me. I chose to leave and I chose never to come back and I’m not going to come back, except maybe to visit you. So stop punishing yourself for something you didn’t do, and let yourself be happy. You know that’s what Mom would say- let yourself be happy.”

The dogs come to you at night along with Peter. You know what it is- your talk with Cora along with the scent of dog urine, released in desperation in the park- just a small terrier, unsocialized and terrified. It did not bother you at that moment, but such is the way of things lately. What you push aside reappears in your dreams. 

The living room a hard concrete floor dusted with sawdust to catch the blood. You pace a circle, round and round. You cannot show your back. Do not show your back. “Derek,” Peter says. “Fucking dog,” says Davey’s ghost. You are an animal thing.

The herbal scent of chamomile. Stiles. Stiles is here and has made tea. Round and round. Stiles is here and has made tea. Stiles is here. His heartbeat is here. Breathe to it. Round and round. Breathe to it. 

***  
Lily upends everything- all the plans you had. Not that you had specific plans- but whatever they were, they weren’t dog ownership. You couldn’t leave her there in her cage. Scott does it purposefully, you think. He plans your meetings at the clinic, gives you updates as he cleans the cages, talking softly both to you and the animals. 

He sighs when he reaches Lily’s cage. She’s backed away in a corner and won’t meet his eyes. “Poor baby,” he mutters. 

You back away a few steps. Most of the surviving fighting dogs- the ones who haven’t been taken in by rescue groups, that is- react badly to you. They recognize your scent as dangerous, even if they do not recognize your shape. You force yourself to go see them anyway. To bear witness to what you have done. Lily is the first dog who does not react to you. Her scent isn’t familiar. It is possible you never fought her. 

“How old is she?” you ask Scott.

“About 9 months old.”

Too young to fight you then. But Jesus, 9 months old.

“Go ahead,” Scott says, “see if she wants to be your friend.”

You raise your eyebrows, but kneel down and hold out your hand anyway. She lifts her head and scents the air. She is dappled like the golden evening light filtering through the trees in the preserve; like little girls light paper lanterns as the sun goes down. You swallow.

“How long until she’s ready to be adopted?” 

Scott smiles.

You are symbiotic, you and Lily. She knows your scent and the twist of your emotions before you yourself do, and you, you know her the same. Mostly she smells of joy, which is so unexpected it makes you laugh every day. Every day, she wakes you with her head in your face, asking to go out. Every day, she runs the preserve with you, tongue lolling, ears up and eyes bright. Every day she is curious and mischievous and begging for attention. Every day, you love her.

“Carnation, Lilly, Lilly, Rose,” you sing to her and she tilts her head as if she were still a puppy. 

You are stronger with her by your side. Now you stop in front of the loft, the site where your house once stood. Now you can even make it to the cemetery to talk to your parents. 

Lilly is by your side when you finally realize. You are at Scott’s weekly pack barbeque, chatting with the Sheriff, Lilly sitting at your feet. Stiles looks at you from across the clearing where he is manning the grill, and you know. The scent of his want has been a steady thing over the past few weeks, but you weren’t sure, not until now, the way that he looks at you. God, you would run to him if you weren’t in public, if you didn’t need to hear him say it. You extract yourself from the Sheriff and make your way to Stiles, touching his arm, though you don’t need to get his attention. His attention is already on you. 

“Let’s go for a walk,” you say. 

He ducks his head, bashful in a way you have never seen him before. “Ok,” he says, and you hear his heart trip. 

You come to settle on one of the boulders overlooking the little stream. Lilly plays in the river. You tell Stiles about your plans- the shelter, the dogs. You know he’s lying when he says he thinks it’s a great idea, but you don’t care. His scent is happiness, and he smells of so much affection and want that you kiss him. 

You kiss him there in the woods where your family once ran and you taste his joy sparking on your tongue. And later still, in his bed, which will soon also be yours, you try to tell him with your body how his long fingers bruising into your skin, his foot sweeping down your calf, the arch of his back, returns you to yourself. This is the only language you can speak, and it is the truth. And if he could sense what you could sense, if he could read the scent of the stutter of your hips, he would know that it is singing love, love, love. 

***  
The car smells of wet dog, sea-salt and happy exhaustion. You are the only one awake. Cora and Lily are asleep in the back seat, and Stiles dozes in the passenger seat beside you. The road is familiar, you’ve driven this so many times before, waking and dreaming. Stiles makes a noise in his sleep. His hand lays, palm up, on the console beside you, so you take it in your own and raise it to your lips. 

“Babe?” he says, not quite awake, eyes still closed.

“Yeah.”

“We home?”

Everything goes flat. Beacon Hills is spread out below you in the dying light. You know every street, every tree, every one of your foerbearers, buried here. It is the geography of your soul. 

“Derek?” Stiles says. He is looking at you, his lighthouse eyes full of affection.

You let your foot go heavy on the gas and take the curve speeding. 

“Yeah,” you say, “we’re home.”


End file.
